


I. Victor

by Cypreus



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Ignatz Week, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 15:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21412216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cypreus/pseuds/Cypreus
Summary: Forced to flee to Kingdom soil, the great master artist, Ignatz Victor faces charges against former lords of the Alliance. Many of his paintings burned, his home destroyed. All that remains is carefully tucked away in his lone suitcase and in the folds of his cape.The master artist protects his controversial painting keeping it safe from those who wish to destroy the truth. In a desparate bid, he calls for help. General Sylvain Jose Gautier answers the call himself, personally seeing to the safety of artist Victor.
Relationships: Ignatz Victor & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	1. Travelling in Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this:  
https://t.co/mgNHD1nnAn
> 
> It's Ignatz week and I wanted to expand my 'post canon' I. Victor AU but I've misplaced my stylus, so I'm just gonna write instead.
> 
> I haven't published anything in a while... So in a way, Ignatz Week is getting me back on track

“How are you holding up?”

Ignatz snaps his gaze toward his companion, the two have been travelling for hours, only taking the shortest breaks to feed and water their horses. Hilda would be appalled at how little they’ve stopped to rest.

Sylvain sighs. “You could’ve gone with the carriage, you know. Might’ve been safer too.”

“It’s,” he stumbles for words, small tremors running light beneath his skin. He laughs away the tension in his nerves. “It’s summer, but it seems so cold.”

The red general sighs “Faerghus is… exactly that. Always cold. But, it’s home all the same.”

There’s a light in his old friend’s eyes shining through the scraggly red hair. And a frown in the upturn of his smile. The artist hums. “Tell me about Faerghus. It always looks so cold and if you don’t mind my saying, unwelcoming.”

Sylvain laughs, “This place is a wasteland. Faerghus was nothing but a warzone for hundreds of years.” The man’s voice is light, as if he’d rehearsed these lines a hundred times. “Invaders from Sreng would clash with the knights of Gautier. A plague ran rampant not 30 years ago in Fhirdiad, Dimitri was just a baby then. And by the time Ingrid was born, the soil in Galatea had already dried up. Crops died and eventually, even people died.” 

Sylvain’s tone of voice is light, his face, carefree. Ignatz could almost forget this man was a warrior. “Whether by war, famine or pestilence," only when his face turns grave does Ignatz see the warrior," in Faerghus there is always death.”

“That sounds- It’s so-” at a loss for words, he huffs. “Were you always fighting?”

Sylvain laughs again, loudly, boisterous. “Of course. We were born with weapons in our hands. We learned to wield swords before we could walk etcetera etcetera.”

“No, I mean. Fighting for your lives.”

Sylvain slows down, Ignatz uses the opportunity to catch up to the lone general beneath the near dead branches of summer trees. For a moment, the man’s eyes are lost. 

But the light returns quickly as he chuckles. “What else were we supposed to do?”

Ignatz watches his companion’s back as he takes the lead again. Children learning how to survive. Fighting in a war they never asked for. Rationing food they don’t have. Dying from an illness they couldn’t hope to cure. He remembers his lines jagged and thick. Itching fingers painting the scenery as fast as he could handle. His archer’s hands made his touch heavy. Angry painted lines. Red. So red. Fast. As fast as he could before they cleaned up the bodies lining the streets of Riegan. The former lords of the Alliance thought they could get away with it.

He painted. And they tried to burn it. His best piece. His worst piece. His magnum opus. Tucked away safely in the folds of his cloak, there was nothing he could do but run. A fugitive now, running away from the former lords of his home.

_ This world is red _, he thinks. So red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just imply that the childhood sQuad are fighting against the four horsemen of the apocalypse? 
> 
> Yes. Yes I did.


	2. Portrait of Strength

He flees first over the mountains to Galatea. When the old lords hunted him down and his home was no longer safe. The friends he left behind were blocked from his path, like fire towering over the only escape, the former lords cut the artist from his own people. So he flees to unfamiliar territories. Flees to Kingdom territory in search of sanctuary. In search of old familiar faces. Faint and out of breath, he falls to his knees at the first sight of a farmer tending to his fragile crops.

Eyes blurred and head heavy, he finds his surroundings passing by until he feels his feet planted firmly on pristine tiled floors. The kind farmer had brought him here, Galatea manor. Small for a noble house. But beautiful, lived in. A home. The portrait he painted of Ingrid framed and displayed in the main room.

A shuffle to his left reminded him that the farmer was still there. “Count Galatea should be with you in a few moments.” The old man’s eyes crinkling into a smile before he turns to leave.

_ Count _ Galatea? “I thought Ingrid was head of house Galatea now. Did she marry?”

“No, she didn’t” There was a smile to that familiar voice and Ignatz finds his heart ready to burst. He turns to see her walking through a stone archway, light streaming through slivers in the vines shading the walkway from the sky. Her gloves are covered in soil, as are her boots. Hair cropped so much shorter than the last battle they fought in together. Her smile falters when she sees his face. “Ignatz, are you ok?”

He smiles, eyes watering as she urges him to sit. “I thought I’d be forced to flee for the rest of my life, never to see a familiar face again.” His heartbeat pulses at the tips of his fingers at the sheer relief of knowing he didn’t have to be alone. “It’s good to see you.”

Worry continues to crease her brows. “What happened?”

“I- They tried to kill me. I’ve been running this whole time- I- I’m sorry, let me try again.” He stops to gather his thoughts. “I painted something during the war. A scene of people dead or dying and being cleaned off the streets like they were nothing. I didn’t realise people would react the way they did. They  _ believed  _ in it like it was the truth; it’s just a painting!” He looks down at his fingers twining in the folds of his robes. With nerves frayed, he continues. “The people rose up against the old Alliance nobles because of this but the old lords retaliated. They want the paintings burned.” He huffs out a laugh. “And me along with it.”

“Can I see?”

He unfolds it before her eyes. “I- I’m frightened. I thought the war over. All the fighting, the deaths. All I wanted to do was capture what I saw.” He shakes his head to get rid of the images. “Why did I have to see that? I- I’m not-” Mirthless laughter escapes his lips. “I’m not strong enough for this.”

“Ignatz.” He looks toward his companion, her eyes kind in her comfort but harsh in her reprimand. “You are stronger than you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do this chronologically but it doesn't look like it'll work so..

**Author's Note:**

> My sister and I were talking about how art affects the world. And...
> 
> Me: art burnings throughout history
> 
> My brain: Master painter Ignatz Victor and art lover Sylvain Jose Gautier fighting to preserve art
> 
> My brain: Sylvain would die to protect art. Sylvain would fight to the last for the artist. It’s Ignatz. His paintings are powerful. People try to kill him and burn his work. Things get political. Ignatz never wanted this.


End file.
